


Purge the Pain

by hypernomad



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-04
Updated: 2013-09-04
Packaged: 2017-12-25 14:04:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/953973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hypernomad/pseuds/hypernomad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world was emptier without Ian and yet somehow it was still not big enough for Mickey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Purge the Pain

**Author's Note:**

> Some time ago, I accidentally prompted Idealuk into writing a fic about Ian being declared killed in action thanks to Monica being an ass (because this happened in the UK version with Debbie, and apparently I'm a masochistic fuck who decided it would be fun to transfer it to the US version. As if this ship wasn't traumatic enough.) But I decided to do my own take on it anyway. It's angsty as hell, so be warned.

He was sitting on the couch in the living room smoking a cigarette and watching T.V. absentmindedly while Svetlana ironed laundry behind him when Lip burst through the door, stormed up to him, grabbed him by the front of his shirt and planted a black eye on him before he even had time to think.

"That's for breaking my brother's fucking heart!" He spat, his eyes watery and livid.

"What the fuck-" Mickey grunted, wincing and sitting up on the couch where he'd been shoved back down on it. Svetlana had dropped the shirt she'd been ironing and seemed to be waiting for instructions to grab a gun from the drawer behind her.

"I know what happened, you selfish piece of shit!" He shouted, his voice shaking a little. "I know everything. He left because of you and now--" he paused, shaking his head, "--now everything's fucked up! Because of you and your shitty, twisted family, my family's fucking ruined!"

"What the fuck are you talkin' about?" Mickey shouted back, glaring at the older Gallagher boy.

"Ian!"

"What about him?" He asked, feeling the dread start to seep in through the bottom of his stomach.

"He's-" Lip paused for a moment, before he continued in a tight voice, "he's dead."

What followed was a painful, sickening silence. Mickey felt the bile rise in his throat the way it had after the nine-day bender that had followed Ian's departure. It felt like he'd swallowed a boulder and it took him a few moments to remember to breathe again.

"Y-you're not serious," Mickey croaked out almost inaudibly, eyes unblinking, ears burning.

Lip reached into his thick winter coat and pulled out a stack of papers that were frayed and damp; torn at the edges and covered in printed text and hasty signatures and logos he didn't recognise. He dropped them on the brunet's lap and Mickey stared down at them, sifting through them just enough to find out the cause of death -- roadside bomb, three dead, two injured. His eyes scanned through doctor's notes and painfully detailed descriptions of injuries, and right there on the bottom of the stack, a letter of condolence and a bunch of shit about honorary titles.

It suddenly felt like the wind had been knocked out of him and his eyes prickled. He couldn't wipe them away or stop them from falling and he felt so fucking powerless, yet again. After a moment, he stood up and paced over to the other side of the room stiffly. "This isn't happening," he whined, gripping his head and trying to stop the feeling that he was about to pass out.

"Yes, it did fucking happen." Lip spat, rubbing at his eyes. "Because of you, shithead. I hope that stupid diseased commie skank you married was fucking worth it." He shouted, pointing over at a displaced looking Svetlana viciously before he shook his head and turned to walk over to the door.

Mickey didn't rush to defend her; he was gripping the ancient wooden shelving unit in the corner like the edge of a cliff and bending over it slightly with a hand clasped over his mouth while he gasped out painful bursts of air.

"I can't believe he wasted so much time on you." Lip said quietly with a shake of his head. He wiped his reddish eyes and runny nose with a frayed sleeve and walked out the front door without shutting it behind him.

Mickey stood there for what seemed like hours until his wife tentatively walked over to him. Before she could lay a hand on him though, he turned and ran to the bathroom to throw up. A few minutes later he slowly walked out to his bedroom again to where Svetlana was standing by the closet. His brain felt like it was throbbing in his skull from the pressure and his eyes were stinging from the wrenching.

He vaguely registered himself kicking the shit out of the chest of drawers before tipping it over, throwing empty cans and beer bottles at the walls and at his cowering wife who crouched by the bed. He picked up a lamp and threw it at her, narrowly missing her. He ripped her decorations down and grabbed her clothes from the hangers, throwing them at her and telling her to get the fuck out. She stood up shakily and ran from the room with a fearful look on her face while Mickey threw a wine bottle at the window, tore his posters down and pulled the mattress off the bed.

After a few more minutes of destruction that failed to quell the intensity still scalding his insides, he finally collapsed to the floor and sobbed loudly into the pillow near his feet. He choked back gasps of bile and squeezed his eyes shut like he could push the pain out if he squeezed them together tightly enough, but it didn’t work. He howled out sob after sob and squeezed the pillow in his hands until his knuckles turned white.

He didn’t know how long he stayed there for, sobbing and panting breathlessly. After a while though, he opened his eyes and sat back from where he’d been hunched over the pillow and looked over at his room. It was a mess, but he just didn’t have it in him to give a shit anymore. Near his nightstand, Ian’s camouflage sleeping bag sat crumpled up on the floor and Mickey gasped out another sob as he reached for it. Every movement felt excruciating to his muscles and his ligaments felt as though they would snap back like elastic bands if he moved them too far. Gently, he picked up the sleeping bag and brought it up to his face. He ran his fingers over the few stray ginger hairs that were still inside it and closed his eyes so he could imagine they were still on Ian’s head as he ran his fingers through it gently.

It didn’t feel the same, though. The sleeping bag had stopped smelling like Ian months ago and now it just smelled stale and smoky.

He’d ruined it.

Just like he’d ruined Ian.

It slowly dawned on him, over the next hour or so, that this was his fault. Three stupid fucking words would’ve kept Ian alive, and Mickey had been too much of a pussy to say them out loud even though deep down he knew they’d have been the truest words he’d ever spoken.

But he still hadn’t said them.

And it didn’t matter if his dad was a violent homophobic cunt, Mickey would’ve said them if it meant keeping Ian alive. Even if it’d meant effectively putting his own head on the chopping block afterwards.

But he still hadn’t.

And it had cost him the life of the only man he’d probably ever love.

*

A few days later, Mickey finally emerged from his room. The house was still as empty as it had been when he’d gone inside. His stomach was knotting painfully in hunger but Mickey didn’t think he could hold anything down, so he ignored Svetlana when she glanced at him and carefully uttered something in half Russian, half broken English and left through the unlocked front door.

What followed was a spree of drugs, alcohol and cigarettes. Mickey didn’t bother counting the days; he was too immersed in the delirium he was drowning himself in to give a shit. But the days did turn into weeks and it was a full fortnight until Mandy sought him out; she found him passed out beside a dumpster and half covered in his own vomit. He woke up in his bed – the room was tidier and he was cleaner, but he felt like shit.

There was a bottle of water beside him and a box of painkillers. He swallowed a few too many down and sat on the side of his bed, hacking out a thick cough. Then, standing up a little too fast, he wobbled to the bathroom to take a piss and spit out a few mouthfuls of acrid phlegm down the toilet before locking his bedroom door and returning to his bed. He slept for a few hours, wrapping Ian’s sleeping bag around him and burying himself in it in hope that it would swallow him whole.

When he woke up, it was dark outside his window, but Svetlana wasn’t beside him. He needed to be alone right now and if that meant making his wife sleep in another of the many unoccupied beds in his house, then so be it. He didn’t give a shit. It was silent in the house though; uncomfortably so.

Finally, Mickey’s mind returned to him, albeit in small waves over the next few hours. Glancing over at Svetlana’s nightstand, he saw that it was only midnight. The little addicted part of his brain was screaming for a cigarette but his stomach lurched at the thought. His mind focused on Ian again, without really thinking about it.

His hands tingled where their fingers used to brush when they passed the cigarette between them; he could still taste the faint trace of his saliva on the butt of it and the way his mouth had tasted when they’d finally kissed for the first time. He hadn’t looked back, but somehow he just knew that Ian would have some stupid smile on his face. Funny – he hadn’t regretted it until now. He guessed that now he’d never know how happy it’d made him. God knows, he’d not exactly given him the opportunity to talk to him about it.

He remembered how his face looked in the low light of the T.V.; the perfect outline of his profile and the greenish glint of his eyes. How his muscles were illuminated by the blue light coming in through the living room window and darkened by the shadows of every dip and curve. The smoky, boozy smell of his breath when it had been peppered against his neck and jaw, saying his name like no one ever had…

…Or would now, Mickey guessed.

The black spots behind his eyes when he squeezed them shut were now freckles; he’d memorized every mole and beauty spot; every crooked tooth and blunt fingernail. He could still hear his ridiculous _‘Van-Double-Dayum’_ and the laughter that had followed.

Mickey never wanted to hear another sound again, nor did he want to think of anything else but Ian’s face. He feared that he would forget it if he did. He decided that he needed to be with him, once and for all now.

The world was emptier without Ian and yet somehow it was still not big enough for Mickey.

*

He’d thrown his body clock off entirely by sleeping all day, so at about three in the morning he decided to get up and get dressed. It would probably be easier to sneak out with nobody up to comment on the way he looked – a glance in the mirror told him that it wasn’t good. His eyes were puffy and red, his nose was pink and he had a few cuts and bruises he didn’t remember getting. He probably needed a shower pretty desperately too.

He threw on some slightly cleaner clothes and grabbed one of his guns from under his bed, shoving it down the back of his jeans. He didn’t leave a note – Mandy would know why and he didn’t owe anyone else an explanation. When he was done, he took one last look around his bedroom and then made his way towards the front door.

But as he opened it, he almost collapsed at the sight that greeted him.

Great. Apparently the drugs still hadn’t worn off…

Ian blinked at him from where he was standing with his fist raised as though about to knock. He looked tired and disheveled and not at all how Mickey remembered him.  

“Ian-” He gasped, barely audible.

Ian smiled a little awkwardly. “Guess I’ve got a lot of explaining to do,” he said bitterly, slowly beginning to seem more familiar.

“What the- fuck—“ Mickey said, blinking and eyeing him wildly. He reached out and grabbed him to see if he was real. “This better not just be the drugs.” He croaked out incredulously.

Ian smirked and touched him back. “You look like shit,” he said, pressing a gloved hand to the side of Mickey’s weary face. “My mom decided to make everyone think I was dead. I don’t know why or how, but it wasn’t true,” he explained, “Mickey—it’s not true, okay? I’m here. I’m not dead.” He explained, holding the older boy’s head in both hands.

Mickey just stared at him, barely taking in the information.

“Is Mandy home?” Ian asked. “I wanted to make sure she wasn’t too upset.”

“I don’t know,” Mickey slurred, and pulled the redhead inside and still staring at him a little in awe.

“Are you alright?” Ian asked. “I know it’s a surprise,” he said quietly. “I got kicked out a couple of weeks ago. They found out I used a fake ID… but man, none of us ever thought she’d pull a stunt like that,” he added awkwardly.

Mickey didn’t answer. He’d passed out.

When he came round, Ian was no longer a ghost haunting his bed, he was not in the piece of fabric he’d clung to, nor was he an apparition at his door. He was a warm weight pressed against his back, curling around him like the sleeping bag, in imperfect condition. Just the way he’d left him. 


End file.
